today’s a fucking ugly day

(yesterday… the twenty-seventh)

pardon the vocabulary. if you’ve read picky before, yall know i can be crass like that.

the therapist is putting me on meds. i am kicking and screaming because they kill my creativity. but living with the crazy right now is killing any love i have for life. 
so tomorrow… i go to a doctor and tell him why i need the drugs. the pills i don’t want to have to take.
because the hate and the rage and shame and inadequacy and despair and frustration and impotence were so strong in me today i damned near clawed my face off. and the guilt… let’s not forget the guilt.

. . .

(today… the twenty-eighth)

the doctor i saw today, by the way, is an old friend of my family. he’s known me since i was about ten. he’s never known of how fucked up my head is because, contrary to what it may seem here… i don’t broadcast that shit. i do it here, truth be told, for two reasons: one, and this one’s much more selfish) to remind me that i’ve lived through this bullshit before and i can do it again… and again… and again… two) to let others know that they are not alone in battling the bullshit. misery loves company, yeah?

anyway…

thirty minutes i sat in this man’s office, and for much of that time, i kept thinking of his lovely, lovely wife who passed away a few years ago, of the scarf of hers i carry in my purse, have carried every day since the service. this sweet, sweet woman who, while i’m certain could scold her daughters into submission just as well as the next mother, this woman who never seemed to show anything but goodness and kindness and thoughfulness. the good lord took her, of course. robbed a man of his happily ever after a little too soon, really. deprived her of the privilege of doting on her granddaughters. she had a life. a good one.

i have a life, too. but the world could use more people like her in it and fewer people like me.

so i’m sitting in his office crying about the rage and shame and guilt and the fact that i don’t want to need this help but am so clearly very much in need of it.

zoloft… that one made me crazier. prozac… that one made me a void. so now it’s wellbutrin.

and some other thing called clonazepam…for when i’ve fallen off the rocker completely and am bashing it against the walls of my psyche. he calls it the nine one one drug.

i don’t like feeling that my life is so precarious.

i don’t like thinking i’ve shredded my strength.

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Categorized as tanks

3 comments

  1. jenn, I understand. I do. Somewhat, of course, because we all have our own story. But, I've just been weened off Lexapro only to be put on two different meds. One that I take at night (Valdoxan) and one in the morning (Pristiq). I admire you for facing that doctor. I think some of the reason I've been able to attempt to tackle some of my demons is the distance from people that have known me for any significant length of time.
    Also, I relate to the feelings you have about the doctor and his wife. I've felt that way time and time again about my stepmother that passed away in 2003. Why her? If someone had to go in my family, then why not me? I know those thoughts.
    I hope the meds give some relief and assistance. I'm on your team.

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